


Close

by actizera (kitestringer)



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: M/M, PWP, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-08-07 07:51:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7706563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitestringer/pseuds/actizera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porny lockdown fluff: Beecher watches Keller shave, which leads to him wanting a blowjob. Simple cause and effect, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted...er, probably mid/late-2004?
> 
> Original notes: "Was originally supposed to be a "drabble by request," written for Trasker (who had requested something where one of the boys is going through his morning routine, and the other is watching him in the mirror). It ended up being...longer than a drabble. *g* Thanks to Mav and Rowan for the speedy beta."

I usually like to shave after a nice, steamy shower—just habit, I guess. I've been doing it that way ever since I was old enough to have anything _to_ shave. I always figured it was the same thing most guys did. Chris, though—he just shaves whenever the mood strikes him. I never have figured out a pattern to it. We'll finish up a game of chess or even just be lying around reading or talking, and all of a sudden, he's standing at the sink lathering up. It's like Chris's basic makeup resists the confinement of routine.  
  
The same could probably be said about a lot of things, I'm learning. By the time I get out of here, I could probably write a book about things to which Chris's physiology exhibits a basic, sometimes violent resistance. Runny scrambled eggs, for instance. Certain kinds of fabric softener. Country music of any kind, but especially the "really twangy" variety. Being touched by _anybody_ when he's angry.  
  
Letting me read, uninterrupted, for any longer than an hour at a time.   
  
It's almost gotten to the point where, after I've been reading for a while, my brain interrupts _itself_ before he has a chance to. Right now, I'm staring blankly at page 29 of _Herzog_. No matter how hard I try to concentrate, the words just sit there outside my reach, ink marks on paper that can't hold my interest for the length of time it would take to decipher them. If I'm honest with myself, I'll admit that I'm not trying all that hard in the first place—because Chris is stirring, getting restless, and that has the potential to be more interesting.  
  
But he's not heading my way, and he's not sighing or grumbling or pacing or staring out into the common area. It's 3:00 in the afternoon, and he's reaching for his shaving cream and razor. I start to wonder whether lockdown is slowly turning my brain to putty, because frankly, Chris shaving strikes me as far more fascinating than anything Saul Bellow might have to say right now.  
  
A couple of days ago, we both stopped bothering with shirts during the day—too warm, not really necessary, and just one more thing we'd have to wash. Chris is shirtless, bootless, and sockless, wearing nothing but a wrinkled pair of pants with the fly hanging halfway open. Muscles in his chest and arms flex and bunch as he spreads shaving cream over his face. I used to wonder whether he was constantly flexing for my benefit, maybe not even consciously—but I know now that his muscles just look that way all the time. Even when he's sleeping.  
  
"Good book there, Beecher?"  
  
I look up from the reflection of Chris's pecs in the mirror to that of his grinning face, now covered in a layer of white lather.  
  
"Riveting."  
  
He laughs and tilts his head upward, swiping the razor slowly from his throat to his chin. "You look a little...distracted."  
  
He's fishing, but I'm not biting. I simply shrug and continue to watch the foam disappear under each stroke of his razor. Not for the first time, I find myself admiring his neck as he swivels and tilts his head first one way, then another. It's fantastically powerful, like the rest of him. I love that I can drive him crazy by licking that sensitive hollow where neck meets chest, by nibbling at the strong rope of muscle that extends from that hollow to his ear, even by just _breathing_ against it the right way. I love watching his neck, his throat in any state of exertion; even better, I love coaxing it into one.  
  
I _really_ love watching it when he gives me head.  
  
And just the thought of one of my favorite ways for Chris to exert himself brings with it a torrent of images and remembered sensations that compel me roll to my side and cross one leg over. I know he has a pretty good idea why. There are lots of things that easily escape Chris's notice, but me starting to get hard is never one of them. He chuckles quietly and rinses his razor before moving on to his left cheek. "You okay over there?"  
  
"Just fine, thanks."  
  
"Well..." The smile he gives me when his eyes meet mine in the mirror is almost too self-satisfied to be attractive. Almost, but not quite. "Let me know if there's anything I can do to help."  
  
"Will do."  
  
Of course, now I can't get the idea of him sucking me off out of my mind. It seems to be getting easier and easier to distract me from great works of literature these days. I automatically glance outside the pod to assess the hack activity, but doing something like what I have in mind during the day—even this far into lockdown, with the hacks as lazy as they've become—is more or less out of the question.  
  
More or less...  
  
Sometimes, meeting a challenge is nothing but a simple matter of providing sufficient incentive for innovation. Chris, I've learned over the past couple of weeks, can be very, very innovative, given the right kind of incentive.  
  
I make sure the bunk gives a strong, healthy creak as I shift position again, this time to press my stiffening cock against the mattress. I let my book fall to the side and reach out to grip the metal bed frame, and then I close my eyes and start to rock. Each gentle roll of my hips works my cock against the mattress and makes the bedsprings squeak, just a little. Just enough for us to hear. My cheeks flush warm and my breathing gets a little heavier as I lick my lips and establish a rhythm—nothing anyone outside the pod would ever notice, but, then again, I'm not particularly interested in getting a blowjob from anyone outside the pod.  
  
After a few seconds, I allow myself to just barely open my eyes. Chris's razor is frozen in mid-stroke, and now I'm the one being watched. I keep going—no faster, no harder—just slowly, slowly humping the bed, as Chris's hand finally falls to his side, surrendering any pretense of finishing his shave. I want to let my eyes close again, but I can't take them off Chris's reflection, as his expression transforms from casually teasing to not-so-casually wanting. If I do this right, pretty soon there won't be anything casual at all about the way he's looking at me.  
  
This is all feeling pretty good, actually, but I'm suddenly inspired to make it feel even better. I release the bed frame and reach down between my legs to rub my flattened palm up and down the length of my clothed cock, still rocking my hips in the same, slow rhythm. Chris likes that a lot, I think, because suddenly he's next to me—eyes glazed over, breathing down my neck—before his razor is even finished clattering into the sink. He sinks a hand in my hair and pulls my head back to kiss me, smearing my face with shaving cream. I let go of my dick and wrap my hand around that neck, dig my fingers into those muscles and start trying to guide him down to where I really want him. Feeling his hot, clever mouth on mine only makes me want to fuck it that much more.  
  
"Suck me," I whisper against his lips. He doesn't laugh or try to argue or even smirk with satisfaction—he just whispers something I can't quite make out and moves down my body to bury his face between my legs. When he gets this way, falls into this weird, mindless, sexual autopilot mode, I almost feel _guilty,_ like I'm getting away with or taking advantage of something. But he never seems to mind—not at the time it's happening, obviously, and not once he comes out of it—so the feeling passes quickly. Any last remnants of it are gone by the time he pulls me through my boxers and takes me down his throat, and now _yes,_ here we are, exactly where I decided I wanted to be only a couple of minutes ago. I'm lying on my bunk and he's leaning over me, one arm wrapped tight around my thighs, the other around my hips, holding me down and sucking my cock. I thrust to meet him, and he takes it all and then some. He seems like he needs even more, the way his arms almost lift me off the bed to pull me that much deeper. He might be a little out of his mind, but he's the one controlling the action here; as always, I'm content to lie back and let go. We've reached that point where the entire SORT team could walk in, nightsticks drawn, and threaten me with a sound beating and a month in the hole and I just wouldn't be able to give a flying fuck. After everything they've put me through here, they can give me _this_.  
  
My brain takes a valiant stab at logical thought: _cover yourself; you—this—cover it with something._ I grope behind me for the blanket, the sheet, _anything,_ but I can't, I'm lying on top of them. So much for "incentive" being the mother of "innovation." More like "sudden onset of blinding lust" being the mother of "getting your dick sucked in broad daylight where anyone can easily help themselves to an eyeful." That's when my brain settles on Plan B: get off as quickly as possible. Get off _now_. I start to pump my hips mercilessly, and Chris hums with satisfaction, the tips of his fingers sinking deep into my thigh.  
  
 _God, yes, those fingers..._ I pry them off my thigh and shove them between my legs; within seconds, Chris has worked a finger inside me and I'm biting into my fist as I come in long, powerful spasms that fold me in half, curl me around him where he stands. He uses his free hand to soothe me, massaging my twitching stomach muscles in gentle circles; when I'm finally at rest, he lets me slide slowly from his mouth.  
  
And there's a loud rap at the pod door.  
  
I jump. Chris jumps. I curl into an even tighter ball to shield my softening cock from view, and Chris takes one slow, insolent step away from me, beaming at the red-faced hack who's angrily brandishing his nightstick. He clearly knows what it is that he just missed, but there's nothing he can do about it now.  
  
"Problem, officer?" Chris's voice is thick and rough. I choke back a laugh as he slowly wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.  
  
"Break it up!" the hack sputters. Chris raises his hands in the air and smiles an even broader smile, and the hack shakes his head and walks away.  
  
I'm still trying to catch my breath, but I can't stop giggling. As fucked up as it would probably sound to anyone else, this is the kind of thing that's going to get me out of here with something resembling my sanity intact. The giddy feeling of getting away with something—something that's both fun and forbidden but that doesn't hurt anyone, so no guilt could possibly come of it. The happy feeling of being in league with someone else against others who don't necessarily have your best interests at heart. The incomparable feeling of having someone look at you the way Chris is looking at me right now, like there's no one else on earth he'd rather be looking at for the rest of his life.  
  
Just _feeling,_ period. Something I was scared to let myself do freely for what felt like a long, long time.  
  
Chris waits until the hack is a few pods away from us, then walks back to my side and caresses my cheek. When he takes his hand away, there's a glob of shaving cream on the tip of his finger. "Now, where was I?" He gives my chin one last swipe of his thumb before returning to the sink to continue his shave. I keep watching him until he's finished, except now it's with the sharp edges of my boredom and discontent worn away. All that's left is to drink in the sight of him and reflect on the fact that no, Chris and routine don't mix well at all. Really, I think it's one of his finest qualities.


End file.
